Project Wasteland
by That Buggy Girl
Summary: People, when defending themselves for unfortunate actions, have always said that things 'just happen.' In Waspinator's life, EVERYTHING 'just happens,' whether he wants it to or not. Terrorsaur can attest to that. BW Human AU; minor slash. NOW WITH PLOT!
1. Falling

**Notes:** Hello, my lovely readers. Welcome to my silly drabble set, "Project Wasteland."

Set in a universe based on the Arbor Hill neighborhood of my area, this series will chronicle the alternative universe life of my two favorite Predacons. This project started with my narrating small stories about human versions of Waspinator and Terrorsaur living in Arbor Hill in my head while waiting for the bus. Naturally, things in my head take on a life of their own...

Don't expect me to explain why they're human and living in the present day, because I have no idea why. It just…happened.

Hope you like it anyway!

-

**Falling**

Because life is all about trying, failing and trying again.

_-_

"_Most of us don't come online knowing how to fly. We have to learn, through trial and error and trial again. That's the only way. You take off and you try and if you fall, you get up and try again."_

"_But falling is scary."_

"_Falling is a fact of life."_

How long ago had he first heard those words? It didn't matter; falling _had_ always been a large part of his life. And how far they had fallen this time! From once-glorious jets, to groveling, underappreciated minions, to this…This mess of non-transforming, squishy nothing.

That couldn't fly.

But they could fall; oh yes, they could fall! And they were fallen; hidden away in a little dump, with almost nothing to their names -- The names that weren't even _their_ names! -- just a small, cramped box of an apartment, some shabby furniture and enough money to make ends meet until they inevitably starved to death or died of disease or slipped away from old age.

What a wonderful life indeed.

He didn't know if it was better or worse. At least they were free from the grasp of one tyrant, even if they were now slave to another.

He didn't know what to do about this kind of falling; neither of them did. So they didn't do anything, they just struggled on and on. And on days that were particularly bad, he would scale the fire escape and perch on the roof, watching the world below and pretending that things were okay and he could still fly.

It wasn't high enough for everything below to look small, but it was close. He was looking down on trees, on cars, on people scurrying everywhere, in a hurry to go nowhere. Everything in the neighborhood was stagnating and they with it; they were meant for better things, but trapped in useless bodies. He wished he could fly; wished he could fly away from it all, leave all the bad things behind.

Sometimes, he would stand on the edge and look down, contemplative. What did this world hold for him? Nothing. He was a broken, poor, uneducated no one who would never rise above his current position as a lowly cleaning drone where he was frowned upon by people who's life spans were only the blink of an eye compared to his. It was a loop; constant and unchanging: drag yourself up, groom, fuel, trudge off to do meaningless work, return to do even more meaningless nothing.

There was one thing that kept him from testing to limits of this body; of seeing if he could still fly and fall and get back up again: the color red. It was in the sky at dusk, when the sun sank low over the skyline. It was in the signs and lights, telling him he couldn't go, but never really getting him to stop. It was in the cars whizzing along around him only to stop at the lights, reminding him that sometimes there was no need to rush; that he needed to take the time to simply exist. It was in whatever it was pumping through their bodies, keeping them alive.

It was in his partner's eyes; in his glossy hair; in his easy, self-indulgent smile. It was him; his color and it was the color that reminded a poor, broken man that he wasn't alone.

They were in this together, no matter what.

"_You take off and you try…"_

If they flew, they flew together.

…_and if you fall…_

And if they fell, they fell together.

…_you get up and try again."_

And then they would pick each other up and give life another go.

That was the only way.


	2. A Wasp By Any Other Name

"You're lucky you got this job, moron. You can't mess it up by calling him something stupid."

"Iz boss-bot."

"Is not! He's _not_ a 'bot and he has a name! Mason. It's Mr. Mason! You have to call him that! Humans don't like being called by things that aren't their names."

"Mr. boss-bot."

"ARGH! It's MASON. Or sir; can you at least remember _that_?"

"Nope."

"Then just don't call him anything! Just do your job and don't frag it up."

"'Kay."

"…Will you remember they're talking to you when they call you Nate?"

"Pro'lly not."

"You _have_ to remember that part! It's _your_ name!"

"Iz not."

"It is now."

"Iz not!"

"Is too!"

"Iz NOT!"

"Yes!"

"NO!"

"You. Are. HOPELESS!"

And the door slammed so hard it made the rickety apartment shake, same as always. It was a ritual bordering on tradition, this argument. It occurred almost every day, always ending with the same dramatic exit from the building and the downstairs neighbor banging with a broom and yelling for them to stop screeching at each other or he'd fucking make them.

It wasn't his fault he couldn't remember this stuff. There were way too many names! Inside their little hole in the wall dump, they were still Terrorsaur and Waspinator. To the outside world, they were Terry and Nate. And to the downstairs neighbor, they were that arrogant asshole and that retard and they needed to shut the fuck up!

It was entirely too many names and Waspinator didn't know why Terrorsaur got so mad about it.

But he _did_ know that Terrorsaur would cool off and come home and probably bring him candy or something because he was sorry he yelled and things would be okay until they got into the same fight in an hour or two.

And the apology so made the argument worth it.

Waspinator flopped in the decrepit old armchair and propped his socked feet on the coffee table. All he could do now was wait and wonder what kind of cheap candy it would be today.

Thinking about it, he smiled to himself. It was funny how every one assumed Terrorsaur had the upper hand in their relationship. Of _course_ the redhead would push him around…He was just poor stupid Waspinator and he didn't know how to manipulate any one.

Except for the part where Terrorsaur was predictable and not as smart as he thought and maybe next time Waspinator would let him win.

Maybe.

He _really_ liked candy, though.


	3. Just Another Ordinary Day

Coming home to find neighbors milling around, children in diapers running loose on the sidewalk, overweight mothers half-watching them from front stoops while garbage festered in the gutters and danced on the breeze was nothing new.

That was just the way it was in their neighborhood in the warmer seasons. Little kids on bikes whizzed around without helmets. People screamed at each other from front porches and windows, always angry about something. Drunks left their empty cans here and there, littering the ground.

It was all normal when you lived in the wasteland.

What wasn't normal however -though it seemed rather appropriate- was walking down the block after work one evening to find your building surrounded by police cars, crime scene tape, news vans and curious neighbors.

That was what Terrorsaur came home to one Monday evening; a mob scene and a dozen reporters, cameras all pointed at the building, voices mixing together as they all tried to get the scoop first. And the police cars…They were _everywhere!_ There were officers milling around in the street, talking to the neighbors, talking over radios.

Terrorsaur's first thought was _"Oh slag, something happened to Waspinator."_

Bad Things had a way of happening to his whimsical little partner. Neither of them were quite certain why, but the world seemed to have it out for the smaller man. Terrorsaur had once speculated that he must have done something terrible in a past life, to which Waspinator had punched him, buzzing angrily. It had been funny at the time, but now this…There were police involved and it was no laughing matter.

The redhead frantically shoved his way through the throng of slack-jawed onlookers, elbowing ribs and stepping on feet as he went. He was glancing around for that familiar small frame and mop of green hair, desperate to find his companion, if only to see for himself that he wasn't dead or injured.

He was stopped by a police officer grabbing his arm as he attempted to pass. "I'm sorry, sir…I'm going to have to ask you to step back." The uniformed woman stated brusquely.

Terrorsaur glared at her, yanking his arm out of her grasp. "I _live_ here." He snapped, "I have a right to enter my home."

"I'm sorry, sir." She repeated blandly, ushering him back towards the crowd, "We can't allow any one to enter the premises until after our search is concluded." And that was that.

"But my…roommate!" It took him a minute to get the right word out; he knew 'partner' had a different meaning to humans, especially given their gender differences and their views -that he didn't understand- on romantic entanglements. "He would have been home…Did something happen to him? What happened? Is he dead? I need to know!"

"No one is dead." The officer looked stressed, but Terrorsaur didn't feel bad. It wasn't his fault the people in this neighborhood shot first and asked questions later.

"Then what happened?!" It was time for a tantrum; the redhead's voice was rising in pitch and becoming slightly screechy. "Will you just tell me what-"

He was cut off suddenly by a small hand grabbing his wrist. Annoyed, he turned, ready to give the person who dared to interrupt him a piece of his mind. Anything he was going to say died on his tongue when he came face-to-face with the very person he'd been worrying after.

Waspinator suddenly found himself swept up into a tight hug, Terrorsaur's face pressed into his hair. It was unusual, he thought, for Terrorsaur to be displaying this kind of affection openly and in public. It didn't cross his mind that the other man could have believed he had been hurt. It only registered that he was being hugged. Tightly. Publicly. "Am okay, Terry-bot." He managed, forcing himself to think straight, forget about the embrace and reassure his partner.

Terrorsaur suddenly seemed to realize what he was doing and released his companion, taking a step back. "Don't ever do that to me again." He said gruffly, straightening his clothes and glancing around to make sure no one had noticed.

The smaller man just shook his head, smiling a little. "Wazpinator lovez you too." He chirped, grabbing Terrorsaur by the hand and ducking through the crowd, leaving the redhead with no choice but to follow. "And Wazpinator never gonna leave you…Never ever!"

A small smile crossed Terrorsaur's face when Waspinator beamed over his shoulder at him. He suspected that the smaller man had no idea what kind of danger he'd really been in, but…Waspinator was right. He was okay. He was _always_ okay.


	4. Accidents Happen

It had been a complete accident.

People, when defending themselves for regrettable romantic actions, have been saying for years that these things "just happen." It had certainly "just happened" for them. There had been feelings between them for a long time, but neither ever considered acting on those feelings, or even really recognized them for what they were. They were partners. They worked together, nothing more. It simply wasn't okay for it to be anything more, though most of the others had suspected it was.

But that had been then, and this was now and the night it happened, they had been walking home from downtown, from the rare dinner out and an evening full of teasing and good company.

The sky had been overcast all day, but both were too cheap to pay for a cab, and anyway, walking was nothing they weren't used to. They did it often enough that it was a routine thing, everyday and commonplace. Two blocks from their apartment, however, the darkening sky let loose with a deluge of epic proportions, washing garbage into gutters and drenching them both.

Terrorsaur scowled, shaking his head a little to try and get his hair out of his face. "C'mon, hurry up…Let's run before this gets worse." He left no room for argument, just grabbed Waspinator's wrist and took off, the smaller man stumbling along behind him.

They were both soaking wet, out of breath and laughing by the time they tumbled through the door into the main hallway of the building, Waspinator -naturally- stumbling up the stairs.

Terrorsaur caught him easily, steadying him, and for a moment, they only stared at one another. Waspinator looked startled, all big eyes and flushed cheeks, soggy clothes hanging heavily on his thin frame. Terrorsaur looked dangerous, his hair darkened to blood-red and glistening in the dim hall light, fitted shirt hugging his torso in a most attractive way.

Waspinator turned, arm sliding out of Terrorsaur's grasp. Their eyes met for a moment, glittering scarlet and bright violet, then the redhead smiled one of his devious, cocky smiles and it was all the invitation the smaller man needed. He surged forward, awkward and clumsy, arms going around his surprised partner's neck, and kissed him.

The kiss only lasted for a few seconds, but it was enough for the damage to be done. It was the unfamiliar familiarity of being in one another's arms, the way they fit so perfectly together, the clean smell, as if the downpour had washed away everything bad in their lives. It was enough; more than enough. That moment, those few precious seconds that he couldn't take back…They were enough to make everything infinitely more complicated.

In the first few seconds, it was perfect - Until Waspinator seemed to realize what he was doing, jerking back, eyes impossibly wide, a look of absolute horror on his face. Terrorsaur caught him by the arm before he could bolt down the stairs and back into the rain.

And then they were back to staring at one another.

Waspinator finally summoned the courage to break the oppressive silence, looking anywhere but at Terrorsaur. "Wh-what happenz now?" He asked, voice a mere whisper.

"I…" Terrorsaur released his friend's arm and Waspinator took a step back, practically flattening himself against the wall. The redhead didn't like the scared look on the other's face, nor did he like the still-rapid beating of his fuel pump. He himself was still a bit stunned and -for once- without anything to say. "…have absolutely no idea."

Waspinator sighed and took the moment of silence as an opportunity to begin the trudge up the stairs to their apartment. He wasn't sure why he had done that -Terrorsaur had just looked so _inviting_; all tousled and laughing and relaxed- but he was pretty certain he'd screwed things up.

And the worst part was…

He'd enjoyed it entirely too much and he knew that that moment wouldn't be one of those things that would slip away from his faulty processor and disappear into the realm of forgotten memories. He knew he would remember it always; that it would be there, taunting him, and that Terrorsaur would never let him live it down.


	5. At the End of the Day

Terrorsaur hated his job.

He hated almost everything about life as a human, but he especially hated his job. His supervisor always gave him the worst assignments; the whole day was nothing but "Terry do this; Terry do that; Terry file this; Terry pass out the mail; Terry go make a hundred copies of this document and don't forget to collate them!"

Hardly the kind of work a brilliant man like Terrorsaur should have been doing.

And the worst part was the boredom; the ennui! At least with Megatron, he got to do things. There was always action and he was rarely bored. Now, he sat in a little box, confined and uncomfortable in a button down shirt and silk tie, frittering away the precious moments of his now drastically shorter life.

Not only that, the commute sucked.

Get on this bus, ride forever…Get on the another bus and ride some more. Work closed for the day a half an hour before the next bus, so he often found himself outside, waiting and waiting and waiting and wasting even more time.

And the people on the bus! Oh, they were disgusting and filthy and crass and everything people ought not be. He would always remember the day that the ragged old man in front of him soiled himself _on the bus_. Or the day some hoodrat was ejected from the bus for possession of recreational drugs. Or the day the woman with the frightening facial hair, few teeth and a foul odor sat _right next to him_ and started droning on and on in words he could only half understand about a former mate of hers as if he knew what she was talking about. As if he cared!

And it was even worse in the cold weather, when there was rain and slush and ice and puddles and he froze half to death waiting for the Pit-forsaken bus to come then had to deal with the rest of the slag that came with public transportation.

Those were the days he hated his job the most. Those were the days he suffered through the daily grind with damp socks, shoes and pant cuffs. The days where there was not enough tea in the world to warm him back up, where his boss always seemed extra demanding; they had to get things done before the weather got worse! Where he wanted to punch the dregs of society in the face and tell them to mute their vocal processors before he'd do something even worse. Those were the days where he would come home tired and miserable, and he'd hate Waspinator, who worked closer to home, had a more physically stimulating -even if was below a brilliant genius such as Terrorsaur- job and didn't mind any of the annoying people on the bus because he _was_ one of those people!

That was what he told the world and himself; that he hated everything on days like that. But he knew, deep down inside, that it wasn't true.

For those were also the days -when it was bitter cold, the wind biting, freezing precipitation blanketing the city- that he would come home to an apartment that smelled of that wonderful, warm exotic drink called chai and his partner curled on the couch under a fuzzy blanket, dozing peacefully while the TV droned in the background. And he would find the clicker and press the off button, kick off any wet clothing he was wearing, and crawl under the blanket with the other man. And Waspinator would shift accordingly to accommodate him, then wrap around him, snuggly and warm, a sleepy smile crossing his face.

And that was what made it all worthwhile; what made the terrible job and the unsavory travel worth it, this moment, this little bit of nothing that meant everything, where all was right with the world for a moment or two, and being human wasn't so bad because there hadn't been anything like this in their lives before.

Coming home fixed _everything_ and so he couldn't really bring himself to hate the job because if there was no job, there would be no coming home. And if there was no coming home…

Well, Terrorsaur didn't like to think about that.


	6. Chasing Cars

Waspinator, they discovered, had a knack for fixing damaged cars.

Terrorsaur wasn't really surprised when, one evening, he came home and found his partner half-hidden inside a neighbor's piece-of-slag sedan. Waspinator had sort of befriended the woman -a single mother struggling to make ends meet- and was often offering to do odd chores for her when he had nothing better to do. And he was really good at mechanical repairs; he'd fixed himself often enough, after all.

The neighbor's car was always breaking down, getting flats, needing the oil changed…All those mundane things that happened to old cars. And it was indeed old; Terrorsaur knew that only the oldest of cars had such boxy shapes and matte paintjobs. This car hadn't been manufactured in this decade and it came as no shock that it was in constant need of repairs.

In return for the routine maintenance, the neighbor sometimes let Waspinator borrow the car, no questions asked. Though he had no driver's license and it seemed like a disastrous proposal given his crash record in their previous life, he was actually a cautious, fussy driver who never sped, never took risks and never had any problems. He took to driving like a fish to water, something which greatly surprised his companion.

Terrorsaur had to admit, it was nice to have some transportation other than the bus to rely on now and then. Waspinator's use of the car was limited and sporadic, but they took advantage of it when they could.

Waspinator spent a lot of time with that car, and sometimes, Terrorsaur would sit on the stoop and watch him as he tinkered under the hood, replacing a sparkplug or a fan belt or fixing an oil leak or whatever. The neighbor would bring him drinks and snacks -usually unhealthy, sugary ones, since those were what her kids liked and what she had on hand and which Waspinator absolutely _loved_- and lean against the car, chatting with him and cooing about how nice it was of him to help her out.

The small man was always polite, smiling and contributing to the conversation in his quirky, broken-speech sort of way (which the neighbor seemed to think was a result of some sort of accent or English not being his first language and found adorable). His good humor and laid-back nature left her smiling and sometimes she would even flirt with him, despite the fact that the filthy scumbag living in the bottom apartment of their shabby brownstone had long since branded them fags -whatever that was- and told any one within a mile radius that the two of them were sicko queers.

And Terrorsaur would sit quietly and watch, sometimes pretending to read a magazine or comb his hair or whatever. And while he was feigning disinterest, he would secretly be burning with jealousy; how dare his partner spend some much time crooning over _her_, that burnt-out piece of slag.

It wasn't the _neighbor_ he was worried about; not at all. He knew Waspinator would never give her a second glance; his processor just wasn't hardwired to notice her _that_ way.

No, it was the _car_ he was jealous of. Waspinator loved that car. He was a mechanically inclined being and Terrorsaur sometimes worried -though he knew it was impossible and ridiculous- that the little bug's tinkering was in actuality some sort of act of making love to the car. Or it crossed his mind that someday, his friend would drive off in the rattling piece of machinery and never come back.

And _no one_ -and especially not a pale grey, faded 1987 Buick Century Limited- was going to take Waspinator away from him.

And so, some time later, Terrorsaur was secretly pleased when the neighbor parked in a 'no standing' zone and the car was towed away to an impound lot. As much as it pained him to see Waspinator so upset -he had _loved_ that damn car!- the redhead had no problems with being the one Waspinator cried to when he discovered the vehicle gone.

Terrorsaur had snuggled him close, smiling over the top of his head as Waspinator buried his face in his chest and sniffled about the loss of his 'friend.' He stroked the smaller man's hair and made the appropriate soothing noises, all the while thinking _'let's see that rust heap do **this**'_ and feeling triumphant and victorious.


	7. Arts and Leisure

**Notes: **This is where the plot that took over the rest of this story came in. At first, it was just a collection of drabbles. After I wrote this one, it developed a plot.

* * *

"…That's very beautiful."

It was a Sunday afternoon in early spring; the weather was mild, the sky a wash of pale blue. Terrorsaur had parked himself beneath a tree with a small canvas propped on his lap and an array of oil paints, brushes and other necessary tools scattered around him.

He liked to go to the park when he was in creative moods; there was a surreal stillness to it that he couldn't find in the Wasteland. At the park, there were no shouting children, no cars backfiring (or were those gunshots?), no people screaming out windows at one another. There was a distinct lack of police sirens, rap music and improper grammar.

In other words…It was a perfect place to work.

He didn't paint often; in truth, he much rather enjoyed photography. It tended to be cheaper and more spontaneous; a lot of money and effort went into the process of painting, but the camera was a one-time purchase that could go anywhere and hopping from online photo developing site to online photo developing site was a way to take advantage of new member offers.

He was a good painter though, simply because he had an eye for angles and lines that other people didn't always see. His sketches always looked incredibly organic, as if you could see them moving or growing as he worked, and adding color only brought them more to life. Waspinator was his favorite subject - soft, colorful Waspinator, with his pathetic, broken beauty and his glide-y, fluid movements.

This particular painting was the smaller man sleeping on his stomach in the grass. He was sprawled, head pillowed on his arms, face hidden in the fabric of his sleeves. An ordinary enough scene, given the amount of people that lounged in the park on a normal basis. What made it unique was Terrorsaur's last minute decision to paint in a pair of delicate, sheer wings sprouting from his friend's back - a reminder of Before. Though he wasn't sure what spurred the decision, it seemed appropriate and right.

"Of course it's beautiful." The redhead looked up at the sound of an unfamiliar voice drifting over his left shoulder and found himself subject to the critical eye of a petite, soft-faced Asian woman. "Everything I do is beautiful." He had no idea who the woman was, but it didn't matter - bragging came almost as naturally to him as flying.

A smirk -or something close to it- crossed the woman's face. "And so full of modesty, I see." She replied smoothly, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "I don't seem to recognize you. Have you ever shown a collection anywhere?"

"It's just a hobby." The redhead shrugged, setting aside the canvas and stretching elegantly, "I have neither the time nor the resources to make it a profession."

As the woman studied the small canvas again, Terrorsaur studied her. She looked young, her face devoid of lines and wrinkles. Most of her shiny, dark hair was pulled back in a clip of some sort, though a few strands had slipped out, framing her face. She was wearing a long patterned skirt paired with a plain tee, sandals and a light scarf. She _looked_ artsy.

And familiar.

"How would you like to display a few pieces in my gallery?" She continued, her critical gaze never leaving the painting, "I'm hosting a show for new, up-and-coming artists in a few weeks, and there's some space left. It wouldn't pay much, but…it's a good way to find out if you've really got what it takes to make it in the art world."

"I'm not sure. Working for the state doesn't really give a body much free time." He was dying -_dying_- to say yes, of course. Terrorsaur had always had dreams of fame and fortune. He knew he was meant for something big. But he had to, unfortunately, be practical. He couldn't afford to take time off from work and he was often exhausted when he returned home in the evenings.

"I see." She frowned, reaching into her handbag and pulling out a business card, which she offered to him, "Well, let me know if you change your mind. I'd love to see more of your work."

He took the small paper, looking it over. 'The Art Spot,' owner Fiona Peng. _Of course _she seemed familiar. He had dragged Waspinator to her gallery more than once and she, naturally, had been there.

Before he had a chance to answer, Waspinator came scampering over, a popsicle in one hand. He was smiling cheerfully and seemingly oblivious to the woman standing by his friend. "Hello, Terry-bot!" He chirped cheerfully, sticking the frozen confection in his mouth.

As Terrorsaur resisted the urge to facepalm at his partner's childish behavior, Fiona smiled, hiking her bag up on her shoulder. "The subject of your work, I see." She commented, easily making the connection between the green-haired fairy-creature in the painting and the young man before her. "Do get in touch with me in the next few days, 'Terry-bot.' I have a few others I'll need to contact if you turn me down."

And with that, Fiona Peng trotted off through the park, leaving Terrorsaur to watch her retreat and wonder if everything about their life was going to change and if he would be able to let it.


	8. Cleaning House

"Why that lady hafta come _here_?"

"I _told_ you…She wants to look at my other paintings, see which ones are show quality."

"Hmph…Why can't you take 'em to her?"

Waspinator was absolutely impossible when he disagreed with something. Terrorsaur had known this for a long time, but that knowledge didn't make it any less annoying now. In fact, it made it worse, because while he had known to expect this attitude, he also knew there was nothing he could do to prevent it.

"Are you kidding me?" The redhead snorted, "There's no fraggin' way I'm dragging all those canvases downtown when we don't even have that piece of junk car any more to haul them with. So you'll just have to get up off your aft and make yourself useful cleaning up all your slag."

The smaller man made a face at him, tossing aside the magazine he'd been browsing and stomping off to start cleaning. Of course, "cleaning" to Waspinator was putting things into haphazard piles - He claimed they were organized, but _how _they were organized was a mystery to any one but him.

Terrorsaur didn't feel guilty, letting him do all the work. Most of the mess around the place belonged to his flighty little partner, after all. He himself was surprisingly neat and organized (most people thought he was too lazy to pick up after himself, but that just wasn't true), so he was taking the time to pick through his canvases and sketches, looking for the ones he thought were the best.

In the living room, Waspinator was grumbling to himself and sifting through random assortments of garbage and shiny things, putting them in shoeboxes and drawers and creating even more clutter.

He didn't want that artsy woman in his house, no sir! This was the place where they were allowed to be themselves; the place where he didn't have to try so hard to speak right, where he could call them by their correct designations and where he didn't have to worry about feeling dumb.

He didn't like her…He didn't _know_ her, but it didn't matter. He didn't like her anyway. She was pretty and witty and liked painting…She was everything Terrorsaur deserved, and then some. Just _thinking_ about that woman showing up at their door and turning on the charm made him angry in a way he didn't understand and Waspinator startled himself when he realized he was practically flinging things into boxes.

She was going to come. He tried not to let himself think about it, but Waspinator had never had that much self-control. _She was going to come._ And she was going to make Terrorsaur famous and take him away and he would have everything he'd always wanted and Waspinator would be left behind here in this dump and be _miserable_ and…and…

Terrorsaur, drawn by all the thumping and crashing and the sudden, unnerving silence, poked his head into the room, only to find his partner slumped in a corner and surrounded by miscellaneous junk. He had his knees drawn up to his chest, face buried in his arms and…Was he…_crying?_

Now, it was no secret that Terrorsaur was conceited and self-serving and that he usually didn't give a damn about any one other than himself. But it was also a well-known fact that he had some inexplicable soft spot for his bumbling companion. No one had ever understood it; most of them had stopped trying to. Terrorsaur himself wasn't even sure of the reasons for it - They needed one another and took care of one another, and that was just the way things were.

Silently, he strode across the room, crouching before the smaller man and patting him gently on the head. "Hey…" Waspinator didn't look up, but he did make a small, squeaking sound, a cross between a hiccup and a sob.

"Waspy…" Terrorsaur frowned, moving to sit next to his snuffling friend, "Why the slag does this bother you so much? It'll be good for us, getting some extra money."

Waspinator was silent for a long time, shoulders shaking as he tried to compose himself and stop crying. He had managed thus far without any kind of emotional breakdown, which was surprising, given his varying emotions. But being human was hard and scary and confusing and he wasn't even sure _why_ he was crying. "She gonna take you away from Wazpinator…" He finally whispered, face still buried in his arms.

For a moment, Terrorsaur just looked at him, incredulous. Then -much to Waspinator's horror- he started to laugh. "You think she's…?" He snorted, cackling too much to even get the rest of the words out, and Waspinator's head jerked up, expression one of anger and pain as he leapt at his friend, lashing out in the only way he knew how - Physically.

"You think iz _funny?_" He shrieked, thumping curled fists against Terrorsaur. "How can Terrorsaur _laugh_ about…You don't…Wazpinator _hatez_ you…" And then he was crying again, slumped against the taller man, fingers twisting through the fabric of his shirt as if that would keep Terrorsaur there.

"Look at me." It wasn't a request; it was more of a command. Terrorsaur knew Waspinator responded better to orders than compassion when he was panicking. The smaller man's head rose -he looked pathetic, face tear-stained- and Terrorsaur planted his hands on his companion's shoulders, catching his gaze. "Stop crying."

Waspinator whimpered a little, lower lip quivering, eyes welling with fresh tears. He looked so miserable, so sad, so…scared. Terrorsaur knew there was nothing he could say to make it better (Waspinator was likely to not believe him no matter what he said) so he didn't say anything.

He kissed Waspinator instead.

The smaller man jerked back in surprise, staring up at him through wide eyes, as if he couldn't believe what had just happened.

"Look," Terrorsaur sat back, hands still resting on his friend's shoulders. He wasn't sure why, but it seemed important to keep the physical contact. "That lady means nothing. She's just a means to an end; some one to take advantage of. How could she possibly understand me or even hold my interest? But you know me, who I am and what I am. You're my _partner._ And no stupid human is ever going to change that."

Waspinator blushed and ducked his head. He fidgeted, awkward and uncertain, glancing around and everywhere but at his companion. Terrorsaur waited, oh-so-patient, until the other man finally mumbled, "She called you Terry-bot…"

"Only because you did first, idiot." Terrorsaur snorted, giving the other's green hair a fond ruffle. Honestly, Waspinator was impossible.

The former wasp stuck his tongue, but curled by his side anyway. "Tell her not to!" He demanded, "Iz Wazpinator'z name for Terrorsaur…No one elze!"

This time, Terrorsaur smiled, putting an arm around Waspinator's shoulders and pulling him close. "You bossy brat…" He teased and Waspinator grinned in return, "But I suppose I'll have to reprimand her if she does it again. It sounds stupid when any one else says it."

Waspinator bobbed his head in agreement, still grinning, and Terrorsaur shook his head in exasperation, though he couldn't quite banish his amused smile. Yes, Waspinator was utterly _impossible._

But, somehow, that was perfectly okay.


	9. Pictures and Photographs

Though he would have rather ignored it, Waspinator shuffled over to answer the door when the bell sounded at precisely six-thirty that evening. The only thing keeping him from pretending there was no one there was the knowledge that Terrorsaur would have started screeching for him to answer it anyway, and he hated when his friend did that.

He yanked the door open, revealing Fiona waiting expectantly on the stoop.

"Hello, Nate." She smiled a bright, fake smile and he wondered if she could feel the dislike radiating off him, "Is Terry here?"

He ignored her, turning to yell down the hall. "Lady iz here, Terry-bot!" And without waiting for Terrorsaur to appear, he started cramming his feet into his shoes. By the time the aforementioned redhead appeared in the hall, Waspinator was out the door, slamming it behind him.

Fiona blinked as the door banged shut, then shook her head and turned to greet Terrorsaur. "Hey Terry-bot." Her smile was slow and easy, and she tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

He frowned in reply, gesturing her inside and folding his arms across his chest as she passed, "Only Nate calls me that." He said flatly, tone leaving no room for argument.

She paused when she entered the living room, waiting for further instruction from the lanky man. Terrorsaur padded into the room after her, and without stopping continued on into the kitchen where he'd left a stack of unframed canvases on the table. "Have a seat," He called back into the other room, "and I'll show you some of my better pieces."

"What's the deal with Nate anyway?" She sat, crossing her legs primly and waiting. Fiona suspected his other paintings would be as good as the one from the park; she hoped this visit wouldn't be a complete disappointment. "He seems a little…off." Glancing around the room, she caught sight of numerous framed photographs, almost all of them in black and white, some with touches of color here or there, and most of them…of Nate.

Curious, she rose, crossing the room to inspect the ones hung on the opposite wall. Most of them were quite exquisite, almost every image had captured the smaller man in a different light: In one, he was sitting on the stoop, bent over a magazine or something, hair falling over his forehead and obscuring his eyes. In another, he was sprawled, upside down, on the couch, a silly grin lighting his childish face. There was a shot of him with his face pressed against the window of a florist's shop Fiona recognized from downtown and one that must have been a subsequent shot of him with his nose buried in a bouquet of daisies.

As she moved from frame to frame, she took the time to appreciate the angle of each shot, the tone and lighting. Terry was a master with a camera, she was quick to realize. Each picture told a story of who Nate was and each picture was beautiful in it's simplicity. Any one could take a picture. It was as easy as point and click. But it took a careful eye and a lot of thought to create art with a camera, which is what Terry had done.

"There's _nothing_ wrong with Nate." Terry came back into the room, lugging a stack of paintings, just as Fiona plucked a small frame from the end table, this one an image of their bleak life: Nate standing, solemn, in a bus shelter, hands crammed into the pockets of his sweatshirt, hood pulled up, eyes downcast, while a torrential downpour spattered the ground outside the shelter. "He has a little bit of a problem with language, but there's nothing wrong with him. He's a good guy and far better of a partner than I deserve."

"'Partner', huh?" Fiona smirked, "I guess that explains all the photos."

It was hard to resist the urge to snap at her; Terrorsaur usually said whatever came to mind without a second thought. But he reigned in his temper, reminding himself again that humans and Cybertronians had different definitions for the word 'partner.'

"Look, never mind the paintings," She went on, "These are _brilliant._ Your photography is far superior to your painting; I don't even need to see any other canvases to know that. Your use of natural lighting and interesting angles is compelling, as is your limited use of color. I'd love to include some of these shots in my show; I think they'd been instant attention catchers. Just looking at them…it's clear that you care deeply about Nate. This is the kind of art people will pay money to look at."

Terrorsaur was so surprised, he nearly dropped the paintings on the floor. "What..?" He blinked, flabbergasted, "…You think my photography is _that_ good?" He took pictures because he liked to; because some little moment caught his eye and he wanted to capture it forever, something he couldn't do in a human body without the aid of a camera. But never in a million years would he have believed his pictures were worth anything.

"I do." She nodded, replacing the frame on the table and loosely folding her arms, "The pictures in this room alone tell a fabulous tale. I think they'd add something that was missing to the show, rounding it off nicely. What do you say?"

It didn't take him more than a second to consider it.

"…Let's do it."


	10. Right and Wrong

Waspinator wasn't sure what he was doing at the gallery.

He didn't belong there. He wasn't the kind of person that should be hanging out with hip artists or intellectuals and he was certainly no conversationalist, which is what all of the people milling about seemed to be. And the food was unfamiliar and odd; the drink Terrorsaur had handed him was making him feel light-headed.

Oh. Right. Terrorsaur.

That was why he was there.

Terrorsaur was in his element. He was the center of attention; every one had come to see his work, after all. And he was certainly living it up. About five seconds after he'd handed Waspinator the champagne glass, he'd forgotten the other man was there in favor of schmoozing with the other artsy folks.

And the small man was left to stand around awkwardly, trying to make heads or tails of the other exhibits.

He had looked at his partner's photo collection first. Terrorsaur had dragged him right away to see the aptly-titled "Project Wasteland" collection. He already knew what all the pictures in it looked like; he was the subject of most of them, after all. And they were quite good, but it was kind of embarrassing. Unlike the redhead, Waspinator liked to blend into the background.

It was less likely he'd get hurt that way.

Now that he was left to his own devices, Waspinator found a corner to stand in, pulling the brim of his new fedora -what Terrorsaur had bribed him with to get him to attend this affair- low over his forehead. So far, no one had recognized him and he wanted it to stay that way. He didn't want people asking him questions or being nosy.

And thus far, no one had noticed the petit man in the too-long slacks and the pinstriped fedora that was brooding in a corner.

Because of that, he was able to observe. He was good at observing, even if he didn't always remember the things he noticed. Somehow, though, he didn't think he'd be able to forget this evening.

Terrorsaur was the topic of all conversation; it seemed his photographs had far surpassed the rest of the works. Every one was talking about Terry-this or Terry-that; about his brilliant use of grey tones, his interesting angles, his frank statement about life in the less fortunate areas. Fiona had said she'd make him famous, but Waspinator hadn't believed it would be so.

"Did you see that collection by the stunning redhead?"

"I don't know which I'm more impressed by, the art or the artist."

"I know! He's a dream…And his photos are amazing."

It wasn't anything different than they'd all been saying. Waspinator slouched against the wall, only half paying attention to the two neatly groomed women who had stopped near him to gossip over Terrorsaur. He'd heard it all already.

"You can tell he really cares about his model. Any one can take a picture, but what sets the pros apart from the amateurs is that they share a connection with their subjects, you know. There's a lot of feeling in his work."

…This was new.

"You know…" One of the women leaned closer to the other, her tone lowering, "whoever the little guy is in those shots, Terry must love him a lot."

…No.

"Totally!" The other woman gushed, "Just looking at the pictures, you can feel the chemistry between them. In some shots, it's like the camera is making love to the model; in others…You can tell he's looking past the camera to Terry."

..._..No._

"That's what makes the collection truly amazing. There's this romantic feel to it; it shows that even in the most squalid conditions, beautiful things can happen."

_No; no; no; NO! _Waspinator pushed past them; shoving blindly through the crowd. They had it wrong; all wrong and he needed to get out of there before he either burst into tears or did something stupid.

There were two courses his mind could have taken after hearing that conversation: He could have reveled in this new fact about Terrorsaur; could have felt special understanding this new twist to their relationship. Or he could have convinced himself that it was impossible; that Terrorsaur could never feel anything like that for him.

Of course, being the pessimist that he was, Waspinator could only believe the latter to be true.

Terrorsaur didn't love any one but himself.

_They were wrong. _He wasn't sure where to go once he left the gallery; he didn't know the neighborhood well enough to find his way home. He didn't think he could make it home anyway, because his legs felt like they would give way beneath him at any second. With nowhere left to go, he sank to the sidewalk, curling up and leaning against the cool brick of the building's wall to wait for his partner.

It was terrible and he couldn't stay there listening to all that slag that couldn't be further from the truth. If only they knew…_If only they knew!_

They wouldn't all be so keen on Terrorsaur if they knew the emotion they saw in his work was all a lie.


	11. Wrong Again

For Terrorsaur, the opening was the greatest thrill of his life.

He loved every second of it; the fancy food, the alcoholic beverages, the snooty people, the artsy folk, the wealth, the opulence, the earthy smell of the sculpture display, the fashion statements, the mingling, the mindless chatter…

It was music to his ears.

Fiona had been parading him around all night, introducing him to dealers and critics and potential investors. The whole night was a whirl of color and intensity, sweet victories and agonizing uncertainty, and he reveled in every second of it.

He loved being the center of attention, after all.

But it turned out -as it often did- that he had a lot to learn.

Terrorsaur was rather clueless about the impact of his art. He liked taking pictures, but didn't really see what all the fuss over his was about. He had little understanding of why his photographs were anything special; all he did, after all, was snap pictures of things that caught his eye. He knew he showed incredible attention to detail and noticed things others tended not to, but had no idea that it showed in his work.

"You're Terry, right?"

He was sipping champagne and pondering the meaning behind a large canvas containing an industrial smokestack spewing birds when a gravely voice sounded from behind, snapping him out of his reverie.

Glancing over his shoulder, Terrorsaur found himself face to face with a tanned woman in a say-something hat. She was a large woman, broad and formidable, with her mouth drawn into a thin line.

She was the only one who didn't look to be over the moon for him.

He ran his hand languidly through his hair, gifting her with his best sexy grin. "I am." He set the champagne glass on a nearby table, turning fully to give the woman his full attention. If she wasn't a fan yet, she would be. "Can I help you?"

"I'd like to talk to you about your model." She simply regarded him, the wide brim of her hat partly obscuring her face.

"My…" He blinked, momentarily confused, "Oh, you mean Nate. What about him?" No one else had really bothered to ask after Waspinator; they'd all been too busy simpering over his talent and brilliance.

"I'm writing an article about your work for the Arts and Entertainment and I'd like to ask a few questions about him."

Blinking again, Terrorsaur suddenly noticed that she had a scratch pad and pen in her hand. He was surprised; what did Waspinator really have to do with this? Surprised, and a little annoyed, too. Who cared about Waspinator? Terrorsaur still could have taken pictures without him. _He_ was the important one; he was the artist here, not Waspinator! "Why would you want to write about him? I'm the one who took the pictures."

"Without him, there would be no pictures." Her tone was patient, but laced with condescension, almost as if he were a child and she were an indulgent mother explaining something trivial to him.

"I could have taken pictures of anything. It still would have been great." He argued back, scowling and folding his arms, "I'm the artist. I'm what makes the art special. If any one else had taken those pictures, they would have looked like slag." How dare she! This night was about him, and not Waspinator.

She snorted, "You really are more conceited than I had been lead to believe. Hasn't any one ever told you that the photograph will only be special if the subject is something you feel for? Art is about emotion; we paint what we feel, sculpt what's in our hearts. And we photograph things that are important to us, so we will never lose them. That's what a photograph is, after all: a single, meaningful moment captured forever so we can see it, even when our hearts refuse to relinquish the image."

There was a moment of silence as she paused, taking measure of him and watching his face -he was an open book; the little idiot- and smiling to herself as confusion, followed by realization flickered through his eyes. She knew…It was plain to all of them, what he felt for the scrawny, unkempt subject of all his photographs.

Clear as crystal, it seemed, to every one but the artist himself.

"It's not like that," He snapped,

_Wrong._

"we've just known each other a long time and I don't really know many other people here"

_Wrong!_

"…so who else am I supposed to take pictures of? He's my friend and roommate and we've known each other a long time, so we hang out a lot. I don't have time for the other idiots in this city"

_WRONG!_

"and it's not what all of you are thinking at all."

She smirked again and, having suddenly understood what she meant, he wanted to shoot her. All of this -his art- had nothing to do with _love._ They got on well because they were partners and had been through some fraggin' difficult situations in the past. Any chemistry between them was result of that, not some sappy human ideals about love and romance. That was all there was to it.

…Right?

_Right._

…Except for the part of him, somewhere deep down inside, that was screaming: _Wrong again._


	12. Walk On

They never talked about it.

Terrorsaur had found Waspintor still curled against the side of the building, sitting next to the stoop like a lost puppy. He'd given the smaller man a fleeting questioning look, but, too high on the euphoria caused by the brink of fame, didn't say anything. Instead, he hauled Waspinator up by his elbow and dusted him off, tossing an arm over his shoulder to lead him home.

Waspinator had shrugged the arm off and hunched in on himself, but still Terrorsaur didn't ask. There was too much to think about and the selfish redhead almost instantly forgot anything was even off about his partner.

It went on for a couple days like this, Terrorsaur lost somewhere in the world of the famous and artsy, traveling between the fantasy of riches and the reality of the fact that people thought he was over-the-moon for flighty little Waspinator. That, and he was on the phone with Fiona often, discussing the possibility of another show, travel, and other such things.

And through it all, Waspinator existed in his own personal hell, moping when left to his own devices, going all twitchy if he caught Terrorsaur watching him with a particular, thoughtful gaze, scowling when Terrorsaur's phone rang and the ring tone gave the caller away as Fiona. Suffocating; he was suddenly suffocating. Or drowning and the apartment was suddenly too small; he didn't know what to do.

And it all came to a head one Sunday afternoon, when Fiona showed up at the door, looking to talk to Terrorsaur in person.

The redhead had answered, lighting up at the prospect of taking the next step to becoming famous. Waspinator had appeared behind him in the hall, staring at both of them as if not really seeing them and then…

He just started walking.

He walked past Terrorsaur, barefoot and out the door. Past Fiona, who might have been greeting him; her mouth was moving but his mind was whirling too fast to hear her. Terrorsaur was calling to him, but he didn't pay attention, just kept moving.

Past children on the sidewalk, in the street, calling him to play. Past mothers asking him to watch the children; past row houses with peeling paint, big flashy cars, garbage in gutters.

He didn't notice the scenery change, as he wandered from one neighborhood to the other. Didn't notice as dilapidated row houses gave way to Cape Cods and ranches, as cars became smaller and more sensible, lawns larger and greener.

His phone rang incessantly, the bouncy, cheerful tune of "Fireflies" floating from his pocket. He ignored that, too, knowing damn well who it was calling and not wanting to talk.

He ignored everything; everything but this sudden need to be free, to feel the wind, to cycle fresh air, to get out and just _be_.

And when he finally paused, glancing around, he found himself in an unfamiliar, neatly-kept neighborhood, where the streets were quiet and the only people he saw were older women in jogging suits who looked at him funny because he had no shoes and was ignoring his phone.

This was when he started to cry, when he realized he was lost; when he realized his life had -again- gone to slag. Suddenly, his face was damp, breath coming in big, gulping sobs. Everything was _so_ fragged up and he had no idea what to do or where he was or anything and the only thing left to do was sink to the ground and cry his little heart out, face buried in his hands.


	13. It's Like This

"Look, you don't know him. I do and this is _not _what he's like."

Terrorsaur was pacing, agitated and jittery, around the living room of the apartment. He'd been doing so for nearly twenty minutes, stopping now and then to try the phone again, hoping that maybe -_maybe_- this time Waspinator would pick up. He hadn't, and now, it seemed as if the redhead was determined to wear a hole through the floor.

"He's…" Here, the lanky man paused again, pressing the redial and nearly hurling the phone across the room in frustration. He spared a glance at Fiona, who was sprawled languidly on the shabby sofa, filing her nails with a 'can we get back to work?' expression on her face, and was suddenly struck by how _wrong _the situation was.

"He's what?" Fiona studied him, watching as he dragged slender fingers through his hair, picked up what she had long since learned was his favorite frame -Nate in a tree at the park, only his beaming face visible through the foliage- and ran a finger along the smaller man's unmoving-yet-moving image.

And in that instant, he found himself thinking back, considering just what Waspinator was; back to their Before Lives, when they were themselves, their real selves and before all of this had happened. "He's…everything." Terrorsaur finally concluded, the two simple words saying more than a thousand flowery, poetic ones ever could, "Without him, I'd have nothing. I'd probably be dead." And it was true. The more he thought about it, the more true it seemed. Who, after all, had patched him up after battles? Who had kept him from running his mouth too much? Who had been there, always, always, _always_, through everything?

There was a moment of silence as the two just looked at one another, liquid brown gaze meeting crimson. Fiona let out a dramatic sigh, breaking gaze to place her nail file back in her shoulder bag. "If you had just _told_ me in the beginning that this is the way it was, we _probably _wouldn't be having this problem." A sulky look crossed her face, "I said 'partner' and you said 'no.' This is exactly what I meant."

"I…" For a moment, Terrorsaur wasn't sure what to say. This wasn't how his life was supposed to be! Not at all. The slummy apartment, the lack of money, the annoying neighbors, the wrong bodies, wrong planet, wrong everything! "It's not like that."

"Oh please!" And, like that, Fiona was on her feet, always the drama queen, "It's pretty obvious to every one that the two of you are hot for one another, so you can cut the act." Suddenly, _she_was pacing, arms waving a little as she ranted, "I gave you the benefit of a doubt, thinking maybe I was wrong, especially after you said it wasn't 'like that.' But there's no way! Even strangers at the gallery who'd never met you before were certain the two of you were a couple. And now you say that he's 'everything'! Well, I've got news for you, Terry. It IS like that!"

Her sudden outburst left Terrorsaur shocked into silence and he found himself just staring at her for a moment. Then his gaze dropped to the photograph in his hands and he studied it as if he was seeing his absent partner for the first time. He would do -almost- anything for Waspinator. Almost. There were some limits. And he did enjoy spending time with the smaller man; liked knowing he was always there. But…

Did that make it love?

Frustrated, he flung the frame across the room, simultaneously relieved and disappointed when it landed, intact, on the sofa. "It doesn't matter right now, anyway, since I don't know _where the slag he is _and he's being a brat and not answering his phone. There's no way to find him, or talk to him or anything!" He was shouting loud enough that if the upstairs neighbor had been home, he likely would have been thumping on the floor and bellowing for Terrorsaur to 'keep his damn mouth shut!'

Fiona folded her arms and rolled her eyes. "Well instead of throwing a tantrum, maybe you could _think _about where he might have gone."

* * *

And at that moment, somewhere on the nicer side of town, a phone rang.


	14. And Found

"Come get me…"

Inferno stared at the device in his hand as if failing to comprehend. It was the first coherent sentence that had come from the phone since he'd taken the call four minutes and twenty-seven seconds ago.

He had surprised himself by answering it when it buzzed; he hadn't been on the best terms with the other bug, who was whiney and silly and lazy. Still, some ant-instinct, primal and deep-seated, had kicked in, and before he'd realized what he was doing, he'd heard his own voice bark out a curt 'hello.'

And then, on the other end, Waspinator had fallen to pieces, coming completely unraveled. Nothing he said seemed to make sense; it all came out as a garbled, buzzing, _sobbing _mess. Inferno felt compelled to jerk the phone away from his ear, fumbling to turn on the speaker, and was now staring at it as if it would give him answers.

He hadn't seen Waspinator since the day that treacherous lizard had taken him and disappeared, fed up with everything. The smaller bug had called every now and then, just because he was himself and did pretty much whatever, whenever. Inferno suspected, somewhere in the back of his mind, that Waspinator got lonely; both of them did much better when around others of a similar state of mind.

But he seemed happy, always chirping about this thing or that, and Inferno had begrudgingly admitted to himself that he was happy for the little pest, and glad to know he was okay. Wayward and odd as he was, Waspinator was still a part of the Colony and, therefore, his well-being came first.

* * *

The neighborhood was unfamiliar, but Inferno had always been exceptionally good with directions and it didn't take him long to find his once-companion.

He hadn't asked permission to leave, and for that, he felt some guilt. But it was justifiable; if he didn't ask, permission couldn't be denied. The Queen came first, of course, but the other members of the Colony were important as well, and he couldn't very well leave Waspinator -who found himself exploding or maimed quite often- to his own devices. Not when he was in need, and certainly not when Inferno didn't have more pressing matters to attend to.

Waspinator was hunched, back against a low stone wall edging some one's lawn. He had his knees drawn up to his chest, face buried in his arms. His shoulders were shaking and he was still making small whimpering noises.

"Waspinator." There was nothing kind about Inferno's tone; being human hadn't made him much nicer.

The smaller man didn't look up.

"What are you running away from this time?" The soldier folded his arms across his chest, regarding his companion with disgust, "You are always running away! From missions, from opportunity, from us, from _everything! _So what is it this time?"

At that, Waspinator looked up, giving his former teammate a sulky, wounded look. "Wazpinator iz not running away!" He squawked indignantly, "Juzt don't want to go back."

"That is precisely what running away entails, fool!" Inferno snapped, a dark look crossing his face, "You are impossible, you know."

This time, a small smile crossed the other bug's face. "But you still came." He pointed out, "Didn't have to." He had known Inferno would come; he always did. It was just the way his mind worked; his first impulse was to do, his second to think. He was a safety net, and Waspinator knew it.


	15. Priorities

Fiona had been shuttling Terry around for nearly an hour, searching for places Nate might have ran off to, when the redhead's phone went off, an unfamiliar song -meaning not the one Fiona knew was reserved for Nate, who was the only one who ever seemed to call him- sounding.

She watched, curious, as he scowled at the phone, flipping it open with a curt "what?" Apparently, he didn't wish to talk to whomever was on the other end, but the scowl melted away only to be replaced by an incredulous gape as he listened to the person on the other end.

About thirty seconds later, he snapped the phone shut again, the only other words he'd spoken being "I'll come get him."

As she swung around a corner, Fiona glanced at him, brow raised. "Where is he, jail?" She was half-joking, but…given the expression on her companion's face, she would have only been a little bit surprised if it was true.

Terry, busy stuffing his phone back in his pocket, scowled. "He's with Fern…I'll give you directions."

* * *

The mysterious "Fern" -who had never been spoken of, not once, in the entire time Fiona had known the not-so-dynamic duo, but was apparently some one they'd both known for a long, long time- turned out to not be the delicate, willowy woman with mossy hair Fiona had imagined, but a tall, well-toned man with hair so blond it was nearly white. He scowled at her, arms folded across his broad chest, dark gaze following her every step, as she brushed through the small space between himself and the doorframe. Glancing over her shoulder at him, Fiona suddenly found herself simultaneously curious and not wanting to know about his soft, delicate name.

Nate was sleeping on the couch, curled into a little ball, blanket clutched under his chin. The fall of his hair obstructed the view of his face, but it was easy to see he'd been crying. Terry started towards him, then stopped, the first uncertain look Fiona had ever seen on his face making its appearance. Fern closed the door, the latch catching with an ominous _click_, and strode across the room, hovering protectively over the small form on the couch, burning glare shifting between both the other occupants of the room.

"The Queen would be most displeased to know you are here." The broad-shouldered man's voice was a warning growl as he glanced down at the curled up form on the couch, "And I am not certain I want to let you take him. He was quite upset when he called me."

"You can't keep him from coming home with me, if that's what he wants!" Terry snapped, giving the much-larger man a fierce look, hands balled into fists, "So don't even try it."

There was silence as they stared at one another, gazes meeting and holding for a moment that felt to Fiona like an eternity. She half expected them to duke it out right then and there; whatever the relationship between the three was, it was nothing short of open hostility in regards to these two.

But then Nate stirred a little, mumbling something incoherent, and the spell that had fallen over the room was broken. Terry was crouched beside him in an instant, gently giving his shoulder a little shake and uttering words too soft to be heard.

_It was all over_. Fiona watched as Terry leaned in, hair curtaining and obstructing both himself and Nate from view. Whatever soft, secret words the redhead told his friend that day would change everything and end any chance she had ever hoped to have of catching the photographer's interest. It was painful to watch, in some ways, as Nate's fingers appeared in the other's hair, curling through the shiny locks, as Terry pulled him close, so close in an uncharacteristically tight embrace. But it was so right; beautiful at the same time.

"He was not for you." Fern's voice -suddenly close- startled her out of whatever reverie she'd fallen into and Fiona glanced up, uncertain and wary. Fern's eyes were dark and fathomless; he had an air of mystery about him. But at the same time, his words were so plain that there was no denying the truth in them.

"Yes," She agreed, gaze drifting back over to the pair by the couch, Nate now with his head on Terry's shoulder, arms around him as if he would slip away should he let go, "He was lost to me before I even found him."


	16. We Have No Past

"We used to live all together."

"…Who?"

"Us. Me and Nate and Fern. All of us together."

Fiona looked at Terry. His face was completely blank, giving no indication as to what he was feeling or why he was even bothering to tell her this. Only his eyes gave the slightest hint of anger coupled with some other nameless, haunted emotion.

"We all worked for the same guy." He continued. It was easy to ignore her questioning look; he knew she was indeed very curious about it and wouldn't question any of what he was saying. She was nosy; she wanted to know. "He's got a big place; we all lived there and did stuff for him. He thinks he's kind of a big deal."

Huh. The woman canted her head to the side, studying her companion. They were sitting together at the kitchen table, she flipping through a stack of recently developed prints, Terry clutching a mug of coffee tightly in his hands.

As she considered the implications of his words, it occurred to Fiona that something less than savory had been happening where ever it was the redhead had worked prior to her meeting him. Two thoughts crossed her mind: Mafia. Prostitution. He was pretty enough for it, after all.

"Why aren't you there any more?" She glanced back down at the print on the top of the stack; it was -for once- a picture of Terry himself, shot with the camera's timer. In it, he was standing in front of the cracked bathroom mirror, studying his own reflection, a similar look on his face to the one she saw when she looked up.

He was quiet for so long, she thought he wouldn't answer. Just as she was about to comment on the photograph, he took it from her hand, looking at it as if he didn't even know himself. "Nate is…Well, he gets hurt a lot. He's kind of accident prone…And the boss liked to smack us around a little if we failed to carry out his orders." He trailed off, once again lapsing into silence, and Fiona found herself suddenly meeting his gaze, his glittering eyes burning into hers.

She had never seen him so serious.

"You left…for Nate?"

"I…haven't been the best friend for him. I've done a lot of things to hurt him and I've let him down more times than I really want to think about. I owed him at least that much; he didn't deserve the slag he put up with and he could have been really hurt." What Fiona didn't know -wouldn't know- was how breakable Nate truly was; how Terry was afraid that if he were hurt in this body, he wouldn't recover. She would never know how Nate had been backhanded that day for something completely out of his control; would never know how it felt to see the wiry man go sprawling face-first across the floor from the force of the blow. It was too easy to forget how fragile they were in these bodies; too easy to use more force than necessary… "He can't help the way he is. It would have only gotten worse; the boss wasn't very forgiving."

Fiona felt like she should say something, but wasn't certain what. She didn't really want to break the eerie silence that fell over the two of them, either; maybe if she just stayed quiet, Terry would continue. This was horrible and fascinating at the same time, an intriguing look into why Terry was the way that he was.

"There was no plan. We had nowhere to go. But we _had_ to go." Terry set the photograph back down, pushing it across the table towards Fiona. He suddenly didn't want to look at it any more. "So we went."

Silence descended upon them again; this time Fiona let it slide, shuffling through the rest of the prints and setting some of them aside for further consideration. There were several more shots of Terry, beautiful, alluring, and all of them displaying the same bleak sense of hopelessness. He didn't look happy in any of them -a strange juxtaposition to the cheerful blur of color that was Nate- and she found herself wondering…

How much of that expression was the past?


End file.
